


Lost and Found

by authoressnebula (authoressjean)



Series: Childhood Games [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: And I made good use of it, Angst, Big Brother Dean Winchester, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s05e04 The End, Gen, Hurt Sam Winchester, Look season 5 was a rough time on Sam okay, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 03:18:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20251300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressnebula
Summary: In the midst of loss, in the midst of crumbling under the strain of it all, Sam finds he didn't lose it all.





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from LiveJournal 2010. This is a short one-shot that wound up encouraging a sequel. Just a little bit of gentle angst set in early season 5.

It's close to three in the morning when Sam's phone rings. The first ring doesn't get noticed, but the second ring finally rouses Sam enough to move. “Sam,” Dean's already calling, voice rough from sleep.  
  
Answering the phone as quickly as possible is the best thing for Sam at the moment. They haven't been back together long, and Sam still doesn't know why Dean changed his mind: for god knows what reason that Dean still won't tell him. But he's pretty certain that his brother being awakened because of Sam's ringing cell phone isn't going to start any chance of being brothers again, which, hey, on the fifth ring already, answer it. He fumbles for it and pulls it to his ear, half-propped up in bed. His fingers finally catch the call button, and he clears his throat of the last vestiges of sleep before he answers. “'Lo?”  
  
_“Sam?”_  
  
Sam pulls back to blearily blink at the lit-up screen. 'Amy' shines bright in the otherwise dark room, and it's with a sick twist in his stomach that he puts the phone back to his ear. “Amy? What's goin' on?”  
  
Calls at three in the morning are never good. Calls from an old school friend, one he hasn't talked to in almost four years, at three in the morning are definitely bad.  
  
There's a hiccuped sob at the other end of the line, and Sam's stomach twists even tighter. “Amy?” he asks, and if his voice wavers then he's just not awake enough, even if he's pretty certain he knows what's she's about to say.  
  
Sure enough, her hesitant and watery, _“It's Tom,”_ leaves Sam closing his eyes. If Amy's calling, it's because Lindsay can't, because her husband-  
  
And he should be saying something to help her, because Amy was a close friend of Tom's. Amy was there for him when Jess died, and Sam's been out of the loop for years now. He'd known what was going on, though, sure. He'd talked to Lindsay right before she and Tom had gotten married, and he'd known the score. He'd known this day was going to come.  
  
But it wasn't supposed to happen at three in the morning after his own past few weeks of emotional wreckage, trying to walk on eggshells with Dean, trying to prove to his big brother that he's worth keeping around, even when Sam's pretty certain he isn't. And that leaves Sam unable to say anything except listen to Amy sob into the phone from the other side of the country. Because she'd be there at the hospital with Lindsay and the man Tom had been. The man who was now just a body, a body that had winked and laughed and played pool and been there for Sam and-  
  
It's not until Amy calls his name through the phone in a grief-stricken way that Sam realizes he's crying, too. It's too much to deal with and he can't, because Tom- he'd been the big brother for Sam when he'd lost his own after heading to Stanford, and it just- he just _can't_, not with the apocalypse and Dean probably still hating his guts in the bed next to him for waking him up, and it's all too much and Sam's left with nothing but a dark motel room and a broken voice on the other end of the line. His eyes fill again, his shoulders shake, and his breath won't stop hitching.  
  
He curls in on himself and forces himself to say something to Amy, _anything_ besides the despair and numbness that's filled him, the overwhelming grief of the past few months that have reduced him to this. “When...” he chokes out, then swallows and tries again. “When is Tom's...”  
  
Oh god, he can't go, there's a hunt Dean found only a day out in the opposite direction. And what would Dean say if he wants to do something decidedly non-helpful to the stopping of the apocalypse? It's Sam's mess and god he selfishly wishes it wasn't for just two seconds so he could _breathe_, but if he tells Dean what he wants to do his brother would tell him to go and then wouldn't wait for him and that was it, they'd be done-  
  
A hand takes the phone from his trembling fingers, and a familiar weight settles down next to him on the bed. “Amy, this is Dean, Sam's brother,” he hears beside him, in Dean's calm voice, the one he uses for people hit hard by tragedy. “When is Tom's funeral?”  
  
And how Dean knows without Sam saying anything, he doesn't know, but god is he thankful for it now. Sam sits on the bed and tries hard to pull himself back under control, though his attempts aren't successful. Tom's gone. He knew it was going to happen, and so did Lindsay. When Tom dropped the bomb of cancer minutes before they walked down the aisle, he'd been expecting Lindsay to walk away. She hadn't; she'd merely pulled a few friends aside after the reception and told him what was going on. Called Sam, told him what was happening. They'd stayed in touch every month or so, and Sam had been privy to all the updates. Chemo. Hair loss. Weight loss. Lack of immunity. The last minute cruise to Fiji and other islands like Tuvalu and Samoa. He'd heard it all.  
  
It still hadn't prepped him for this. A pseudo big brother dead, another friend a widow at only twenty-five.  
  
Somewhere while Sam's been lost to thought, Dean stopped talking. He's quiet now, but he's still sitting next to Sam, the side of his body pressed against Sam's. “It's not until Friday,” Dean finally says, voice quiet. “We'll have enough time to get out there before then. Your friend sounds pretty wrecked: I think it'd do them good to see you.”  
  
Good to see Sam, the unlucky penny? The one who's brought damnation upon them all? They should be stoning him as soon as they see him, not hugging him and crying with him, which is exactly what Sam knows they're going to do.  
  
And this shouldn't be Dean's response, either. It should be a, “Do you want to go?” with a heavy glance that signifies just what Sam is really choosing. It shouldn't be Dean's now silent presence against Sam, a show of support and strength when Sam's obviously reached the end of his rope. And it sure as hell shouldn't be the arm carefully reaching around Sam's shoulder to gently squeeze and offer reassurance when words couldn't.  
  
Tom had been there for him when Dean couldn't. But now, Dean sits beside him in the dark motel room, being there when he shouldn't. This doesn't feel like the rocky road they've been on for so long. This feels like-  
  
Being brothers. It only succeeds in making Sam's eyes burn even more, causing more tears to fall without a sound. He doesn't deserve to have Dean here, and still, seriously, god knows why Dean _is_ here instead of somewhere else in the country with Castiel who hasn't screwed up and betrayed him as spectacularly as Sam has.  
  
But maybe, Sam realizes suddenly, maybe Dean just really doesn't care anymore. About that. Because it dawns on him that the only person who's been expecting Sam to fall into line, to do everything Dean says, is Sam. Sam's the only one who acts like Dean's going to hurt him or hit him because Sam feels like he should.  
  
Dean hasn't done anything to suggest he's feeling anything towards Sam except brotherly. Like he cares. Like he actually _forgives_-  
  
The next thing Sam knows, he's exhaling a shuddering breath and his throat's closing on him. Dean pulls him in close and puts his other arm around him, two huge arms encompassing another huge man who feels like anything but. This is how Dean's really been for the past few weeks, ever since he got Sam back. Sam just didn't see it, kept expecting the other shoe to drop.  
  
It occurs to him that maybe there isn't another shoe. Maybe Dean's been trying to be the big brother Sam wants and needs, trying to have things go back to the way they were, and Sam's been too afraid of screwing it all up to let it happen.  
  
He swallows hard. “You don't mind?” he finally asks, because he has to.  
  
“No, Sammy,” Dean says quietly. “And I never would.” Like Dean knows what he's been thinking all along.  
  
Maybe he does. Maybe he's been able to since Sam was old enough to think. It wouldn't surprise him.  
  
For now, he closes his eyes and lets Dean bear his weight for a little bit more because he's tired. He's exhausted and broken down and he's just so damn _tired_ and he can't do it alone anymore.  
  
It's nice to finally remember that he doesn't have to.  
  



End file.
